Right before I left for New York to live on my own for the first time, my father sat me down in our living room in Austin, the third place I had ever lived. He handed me this card, with an image of a saint and in the bottom left corner, a piece of fabric with a red cross painted over it. He told me his grandmother had given the card — which he said contains a small square of the saint's clothing — to an uncle of his before he left to fight in a war, and that the card had kept his uncle safe abroad. My father had kept it in his wallet, and since that day I have kept it in mine.

When I return to Portugal, where I spent the first three years of my life and where almost all of my relatives reside, there is usually a religious holiday or occasion on the horizon. Religion, and specifically Christianity, is deeply ingrained in Portuguese culture. Just outside my grandmother's house in Porto is a church where my godmother sometimes sings in the choir. I have fond memories of baptisms, first communions and Christmases where dozens of cousins and aunts and uncles gathered on the church steps in a wonderfully chaotic fashion.

Like many immigrants, my first steps in the United States were in New York, during a layover on the way to Northern California. My parents came to America without much; my father had secured a job and the plan was to stay for three years. With the exception of my youngest sister, who was born here, we all received our citizenship after many more years here. At the citizenship ceremony, I’m sure my father had his grandmother’s saint in his pocket, watching over us.

– Carmo Moniz

Relationship:  Im/migrant who arrived as a child Im/migrant who arrived as a child